


Really Love You

by 221Btls



Series: Dear Boy [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Katie is John and Mary's daughter, M/M, Mary died when Katie was 2, Mary is more like ACD Mary, Retirementlock, Sherlock Being Sherlock, lots of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 12:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5291081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221Btls/pseuds/221Btls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At 66 and 71 years old, Sherlock and John have been married for 8 years.  They should be enjoying their Caribbean cruise, but neither one is happy; they’re missing out on grandson JJ’s first Christmas.  How will Sherlock make sure they get home in time?  Knowing him, it isn’t going to be a straightforward proposition.  Oh, Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Really Love You

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in my Dear Boy world. Read the tags and you’ll be all caught up!
> 
> Really Love You is a song on Paul McCartney's Flaming Pie album

Pat.

Pat.

Pat, pat, pat.

 

Pat.

Pat, pat.

 

The pad of John’s finger taps at his mobile; he is texting.  Since I lie right beside him, I know he is texting Katie.  At this rate, she’ll have time to feed JJ, hoover her entire house, _and_ run to the shops before he notices she has not replied.  And that is because he will not yet have finished the message he is sending.

“John, opposable thumbs?”

“Don’t nag me, Sherlock; I go as fast as I go.  Not everyone has your dexterity.”  He sounds annoyed, but he cannot hide his pride in his husband (Me!) from creeping into his voice.

“But you were a doctor.  A _surgeon,_ ” I persist, implying that someone who operated on people with those hands surely must have left a few lifeless bodies on the surgery tables.  John does not rise to the bait.

“Honey,” John says.  “You know how much I love being close to you, but it does make it rather difficult to text with your head lying on my chest.”  He shifts his arms to see the screen more easily, but I do not move; I am in no hurry to rouse myself from where I rest so comfortably. 

“So what shall we do today, John?” I tilt my head back and look at him upside down.  “We dock in Puerto Rico.”

“Oh, Christ.  I think I just deleted the whole goddamn thing.  Now I have to start over again.”  He squints at the screen, determining the extent of the damage.

Still peering up at him, thinking a good nose hair clipping might be in order, I stretch my arm, contorting as I reach the table beside his for his glasses.   Squirming, I manage to knock John’s mobile out of his hands, and I turn over, lying on his stomach to grab it from the deck.

“Sherlock.”  John squeaks out my name as I push myself back up and hand him his mobile.  “You aren’t as light as you look.  Now get off of me.”

Pushing myself up to sit facing him, he leans in to give me a peck on the lips (a peck!), and draws away. Quite insufficient, John.  My hand on the back of his head, I pull him to me for a _real_ kiss and snake my hand into his bathing trunks.  But he will have none of it; he pulls his head away, my hand out of his trunks, and glares at me. 

Glowering back, I sit up beside him and cross my arms.  Creating a wide berth of space between us.  Let us see how he likes _that._

“What are we doing today, John?”   I sling one leg over the other, my big toe tapping at the air, my fingers tapping my arms. 

“Why don’t you take a look at the schedule and see what they have on?  I’ll be done in a few minutes.”  He still does not look up.

Pat.

Pat, pat

 

Pat. 

Pat.

Pat. Pat. Pat.

 

Hmph.  Not at _that_ rate.

 

 

 

This is not how our cruise was supposed to be, John spending much of his time texting Katie, and me, spending much of _my_ time trying to get John to enjoy a trip he has always wanted to take.

John and I are guests on the maiden voyage of the Pearl of the Sea, “The Largest and Most Luxurious Cruise Ship in the World.”  Katie and her husband Paul gifted passage to us as a Christmas present when, instead of emailing Katie a recipe for Bucket Fried Chicken, John emailed her his Bucket List, on which she saw his wish to take a Caribbean cruise.  Amongst other…desires.  I do not think I have ever seen John turn as red as he did when she emailed him back, saying that whilst she found “kiwi-flavoured lube” and “fur-lined riding crop” to be _intriguing_ ingredients, she might like a more traditional approach to cooking chicken. 

Katie and Paul were to have taken the cruise themselves, along with JJ, (Our grandson!), but at the last minute, Paul’s firm acquired a new client who insisted Paul was the only one he would work with on a project with a deadline of December 27. 

And so here were are.  Lying on a doublewide lounge in our private cabana, drinking mimosas, and every three minutes wiping our bodies of sweat.  (Nooo! Get your mind out of the gutter!  Not everything is about sex. Well, _almost_ not everything.)  But the alcohol has not improved John’s mood.

I know why he is disgruntled. 

I tried to talk him out of accepting the gift from Katie, telling him that he would not enjoy himself, knowing he would miss not being with JJ on his first Christmas.  But no, Mr. Stubborn said it would be fine, all fine.  That it truly did not matter to him; we would celebrate together when we returned home.  And besides, he said, JJ is too young to know the difference what day we celebrate.

I am magnanimous in my restraint not to tell John I was right; the mere fact that he refused sex is proof that I am.  But what do I do now?  I feel as if I have tried everything, and it is unquestionable how clever and devious I am.  But not only have my attempts not lightened his mood, he has grown increasingly dour. 

Drat. Why have I failed to make him smile?  A real smile?  The Oh-God-How-I-Love-You Smile?  The one that makes my heart flutter, and makes me forget that anything or anyone else around us exists?  It is the smile he wears when he is happiest.  The one for which I would literally kill, though thankfully I have not had to resort to such an extreme.  Recently.

One of the many ways in which I have changed since I fell in love with John is that I can now tell the difference between his smiles.  There is the aforementioned smile, one that did not magically appear the day I fell in love with him as I had always thought.  No, unbeknownst to me, it appeared for the first time within days of when we first met.  I enjoyed it, very much, but would have enjoyed it more had I known its significance.  It fills my heart with regret to know that had I known, we would have had many more happy years together.  Together in every way.  Ahh, but there is nothing to do about it.  We are together now, and that is what is important. 

Then there is the I-Want-to-Kill-You-but-I-Won’t Smile.  This one I have long recognised.  Shudder.  I am thankful John is a moral man, or else I would be dead many times over.  He has not resorted to that smile during this trip, though I know I have tried his patience with some of my, shall I say, more creative attempts to enliven him.

The third smile, the I’m-Not-Happy-but-I’m-the-Strong-and-Silent-Type-so-I’m-Not-Telling-You-Why-I’m-Not-Smiling Smile is the one he has been wearing the last two days.  It is the one that lifts his mouth but does not reach his eyes, leaving them dark and impenetrable.  The one that is vexing me.  

The point is, my John is not happy, and I am almost at a loss of what to do about it.  After all, on our wedding day I vowed to make him happy.  Every day.  The vow secures the top position on my Pail List.  Bucket List, for you neophytes.     

I sigh.  I will have to revert to my back up plan. I had hoped it would not come to this; I do not use it often or else it would lose its impact. 

I modulate the timbre of my voice to just the right tone, the one at which his toes will curl in anticipation.  I calculate the angle of my neck, the degree at which my still-full head of hair will tickle his jaw, making him powerless to keep from running his fingers through it.  And falling sideways until we are arm-to-arm, I let my head rest on his shoulder. 

“I love you, John,” I say, words he so rarely hears leave my mouth.  Aha!  He will be himself in no time; he can never resist a well-timed romantic gesture. 

I bask in my brilliance, my smile hidden by the tilt of my head.  I wait… I wait…

Pat, pat, pat.

A heavy sigh whooshes out of him (Yes, John, I am sure it is quite taxing to, every few minutes or so, drop your finger to your mobile!), and he is about to say it, that he loves me, too.  I will have restored him to his normal, non-grumpy self.  And I will once again have bestowed upon me that most luminous of smiles, the Oh-God-How-I-Love-You Smile.  John will be happy, and the world will be right once again.

“Did you look at that schedule, Sherlock?

Wait.  What?  No “I love you” in return?  A chill runs through me.  The situation is direr than I suspected.  This requires drastic measures.  And I know just the man to concoct a devious, unassailable plan to make John happy again.

Me.

I block out John’s rhythmless texting, retreating into my mind palace, sorting through the various stratagems I have employed over the years to solve the most complex mysteries.  It takes more time than I anticipated; I have already all but exhausted my resources, but nothing is too much trouble for my John.  (I know, I know, if there were a Husband of the Year award, the mantel at our cottage would be cluttered with them.)

“John, I will be back soon.” I throw my legs over the side of the lounge, training my eyes on him to see his reaction.  If I am not wrong, and I am so rarely wrong, he is too involved with his text to join me. 

I am right.  Of course.

“Don’t forget your sunscreen, honey,” he says without looking up.  “The SPF 100. With your fair skin, just going out in this sun for a few minutes, you’ll burn.” 

Pat, pat.

Pat.

Pat, pat, pat, pat.

I hear the incessant tapping as I leave, and, forty-five minutes later, instead of rejoining John, I return to our cabin.

**_John, come back to the room.  We need to pack; we are going home.  SH_ **

****

**_John?_ **

****

**_John?_ **

****

****

I roll my eyes.  At the speed he types (I apply the word “speed” generously) I could be sitting here until I am covered in cobwebs before I get a response.  But instead of a text, ten minutes later John comes through the door, slightly breathless.

“What do you mean we’re going home?” He asks, taking a couple of deep breaths.  (Hmmm, we had best check with a cardiologist, or pulmonary specialist, when we get home.  Yes, John did cover a lot of territory to make it from the sun deck to our cabin in record time, but at his age one cannot be too cautious.)

“John, we are going home,” I announce, retrieving my travel bag from the wardrobe.

“Yes, you said that. But why?”

I fill my bag with clothing folded to the precise measurements for maximum packing capacity.

“I went to the infirmary.”

“You what?”

“Must I repeat everything I say?”  I look at John over my shoulder and instantly regret my tone.  He is confused, and I do not blame him. 

“I went to the infirmary,” I say, resuming my packing.  “And it is imperative we go home.  I have had severe pain the entire trip, and the ship doctor said I have an abscessed tooth.  It requires immediate attention before I lose it.”

“Sherlock?  Why didn’t you say something?  I’m a doctor; you should have told me.” 

I hear the concern in his voice, and I cannot look at him again for fear my eyes will betray me.  Surely my acting talents have withered from lack of use; since retiring from active cases I find there has been little use for them.

“I did not want to worry you, John.  I did not want to ruin your trip.”

“Ha,” he laughs, but there is no humour in it. “It’s unlike you to spare me; I’ve heard you moan and cry louder over a cut finger than people who’ve had entire limbs cut off.”

With a hand on my arm, John turns me to face him.  “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, I lift my head until our eyes meet.  He peers into them, searching, I know, for artifice.  I blink my eyes rapidly, quivering my lower lip in “pain.” Hmm, perhaps I have not lost my ability to deceive, after all.

“Open your mouth.  Let me see.”

I open my mouth, releasing a small moan for added effect.

“I can’t see.  Let’s go to the window.”

I follow John to the balcony door, and he opens the blind.   The sun is bright, but as it does not shine directly into my mouth, it is of no help.

“I don’t see anything.  Which one is it?”

“‘is un.”  My finger in my mouth pointing at a tooth near the back, I am unable to articulate.  My mouth should be dark enough that John cannot tell for sure which tooth it is, but he outwits me, pulling his mobile out of his pocket and turning on its flashlight. 

Shining the light into my mouth, he says, “No redness, no swelling. Can’t see any signs of infection.  I don’t know, Sherlock.”

With John finished examining me, I press my hand to the side of my face and moan again, trying to look as pitiful as I can. 

I see John thinking as he watches my face, trying to decide if I am lying   _If this another one of your cockamamie schemes, what is you want?,_ or if I am truly in pain _Christ, if you really do hurt, I can’t bear it._  I can tell the moment he settles on the latter; his face softens, and he places a hand on my chest in apology.

“I’m sorry, sweetie. I don’t mean to doubt you, but it came on so suddenly.  Can’t we have you seen by a local surgeon in San Juan?  We’ll be there soon, won’t we?” 

“I do not want to see just anyone, John; I want Dr. Hussein in Cardiff.  You know how particular I am.”  Picking up John’s bag, I push it at him until he takes it.  I wrinkle my face to show him how much discomfort I am in, amazed at how easily deception has come back to me.  Why I should be surprised, I do not know.  Never has there been anything I could not accomplish once I put my incomparable mind to it. 

“But how are we getting there?  And what about the rest of our cruise?”

“I have arranged for a private jet to meet us.”  I consult my watch.  “In exactly one hour and forty-eight minutes.”

“A private jet!  Sherlock, the cost--”

“It is covered by our trip insurance.  Come, John, get packed.  We want to be ready when the ship docks.”  I take the rest of my garments from the wardrobe and set them beside my bag. 

John stands there holding his bag, his mystification at the sudden turn of events evolving into a stifled smile.

“Do you find my distress amusing, John?”  I ask as if affronted, but pleased that my plan to make him happy has borne fruit.   

“Uh, no.  No, not at all.”  The smile disappears from his mouth, but not his eyes.  “Lie down, love, whilst I finish packing for us.  You need to rest.  Did the infirmary give you anything for the pain?”

“Ibuprofen and some antibiotics.”

I lie down on the bed, gloating in my victory.  Soon we will be home, celebrating Christmas with our family.  And whilst I watch John throw our things into our bags (Careful, John!  I will never get the wrinkles out of that suit!), I text Katie. 

**_Katie, there’s been a change of plans.  We’ll be home for Christmas._ **

It is not but a few seconds before she texts back. 

_Pére,_ _is everything thing okay?!  You aren’t ill are you?  Or Dad?_

**_We are both well.  But John has been moping, from the thought of spending Christmas away from you and the family, I have no doubt.  It tears my heart apart to see him so unhappy.  I know, I know, it is a surprise to hear I have a heart, but when it comes to your father, well…_ **

_Shame on you!  You have and have always had, a far bigger heart than you have ever given yourself credit for.  You are a wonderful man and father, Sherlock Holmes.  So stop that._

“Who are you texting, honey?”

“Dr. Hussein’s office.” The lie falls out of my mouth smoothly.  “They had a difficultly squeezing me in, but they made an appointment for me at 11 tomorrow morning.” 

“On Christmas morning?!”

I lick my lips; I must be careful to lie _more_ smoothly.  “No, I mean the day after.”

John resumes packing, humming whilst he does.  _Humming._ Perhaps he does not love me as much as I think he does, to be so happy whilst I am in such “pain.”The thought sends remorse flushing through me.  John loves me far more than I deserve, or will ever.  And after all these years I still have no idea why he does.  Sigh.  I guess some mysteries are impossible to solve.

My mobile pings.

_Pére?  Are you still there?_

**_I am.  I have had to create, shall I say, a situation to get John home without him knowing the real reason we are leaving; I want to surprise him.  Whatever he tells you, go along with it.  Do not tell him what I am doing._ **

_*Clapping* I am SOOOO happy, Pére!!  I know the cruise was my idea, but it just wouldn’t feel right without you and Dad home for Christmas. And I don’t want to show JJ pictures from his first Christmas, with him asking where his granddads are.  Dammit, now I’m going to cry.  I love you so, much, Pére.  I could never have asked for a better husband for Dad, or a better bonus dad.  You’re such a blessing._

My eyes mist over, and I swipe them with the edge of my hand.

“Sherlock!  Oh my god, sweetheart, are you in that much pain that you’re crying?  Christ, what a fuckwit I am.  And here I thought you were faking it.”  John rushes to the bed and, kissing me atop my head, nudges his arm around my shoulders, resting his head on mine.  “I’m sorry for not believing you.  Are you sure you don’t want to see one of the surgeons in San Juan?  No, no, we’ll go home, just as you asked.  I know you don’t like strangers touching you.  I just don’t want you to hurt any longer than you have to.”

He pulls his arm from around me and sits by me on the bed, taking my hand in his.  “Anything you want, honey.  Anything.  I just want you to be well and happy.”

I look at John’s face, knotted with worry and love.  It has lost none of its luster in the thirty odd years I have known him.  In fact, every line and every wrinkle have only made him more beautiful.  Every grey hair a reminder of the extraordinary history we share.  The ring on his left hand a reminder that I, Sherlock Holmes _,_ was somehow granted not only the privilege of spending the rest of my life with him, but the privilege to love him, and have him love me.  Forsaking all others.

I think of what Katie said, _You’re such a blessing,_ and _I couldn’t ask for a better bonus dad,_ and, to my dismay, my eyes again grow moist.  

“I love you, John.”  This time, I do not say it to manipulate him.  I say it because, even though it is always true, at this moment my heart is about to burst with love for him and there is no room inside of me for any other emotion. 

“I love you, too, Sherlock, more than you can know.” 

“Uhm, John?”  I watch my thumb rub his wedding band, the platinum ring that has left his finger but a handful of times since we married.  The ring that is strong, constant…precious.  As is my husband. 

“Yes, honey?”

“I--I have something I need to tell you.”  I am ashamed.  Not only did I make John worry about me when there was no need, but I broke my promise to never, _ever_ lie to him again.

John puts his finger under my chin, lifting it.  “I know,” he says, his eyes, kind and warm, meeting mine.

“You know?  You know what?”

“I know you were trying to find a way to get us home for Christmas.”

“Wait.  How did you know?  Was it because I started my own packing?  I _thought_ that might be suspicious.”

John shakes his head, amused.  “I know you, Sherlock; I’ve loved you for more than thirty years and have been married to you for eight.  As much as you like to think so, there’s not much you can get past me.  And I know that as much as you don’t want to admit it, you want to be with family, _our_ family, for Christmas.”

“But, John,” I bluster.  “I did it for you.  You were moping about, and I knew you would be too proud to admit you would rather go home.”

“No, I just pretended to be unhappy.  I knew you wouldn’t admit _you_ wanted to go home, sentiment and all that bologna, so I made you think I wasn’t happy.  I figured you would come up with something underhanded.  Ha!  I was right.”

I am shocked.  “John!  You _tricked_ me.”  I fold my arms across my chest, turning my head away; this time my indignation is no pretense. 

“Come now, love,” John says, tugging gently at my arm, urging me to turn back around.  “It isn’t like I couldn’t have helped but learn a thing or two, spending all these years with you.  If I say so myself, I was pretty convincing, wasn’t I?”  His smile brightens the sunny room. 

“Yes, you were, John.  _Quite_ convincing.”  Looking at the joy on my husband’s face, I cannot stay angry; after all, his happiness is all I need to make me happy. “But why did you keep going along when you knew what I was up to?”

He shrugs.  “I was curious to see how far you’d go.  And to be honest, it was thrilling watching you; it’s been a long time since you’ve gotten to play a role.  Every moment was fascinating.  Everything about you fascinates me.  Always has.”

He looks at his watch.  “We still have, oh, an hour before the ship docks.  What do you say to a little…recreation?” John slides his hand up my thigh, a smirk on his face.

My husband, the idiot.  As if he does not know the answer.

\-------------------------

I sit in the chair near the end of our bed, watching John sleep.  It was a long trip home, and he is worn. The fairy lights he hung before we left for our cruise let me see clearly the man with whom I am deeply, irrevocably, in love.  The man who, I found out when we arrived at Heathrow, had outwitted me again.  Instead of taking a cab to Katie’s house, John had hired a car service to make the drive home.  Home.  Katie, Paul, and JJ will make the trip up to our cottage in the morning, joining us for Christmas Day.

John stirs under the covers.  “Come to bed, honey,” he murmurs sleepily.  “They’ll be here before we know it and you need your sleep.”  He pats a hand in the empty space, _my_ space, behind him, telling me he misses me.

I stay where I am just a little longer.  Counting my blessings.  Knowing that the blessing lying just feet from me is beyond my comprehension. 

Rising, I drape my dressing gown over the back of the chair and walk to the bed, sliding under the duvet.  Nestling my face into the sleep-warmed curve of John’s neck, I wrap my arm around him and tuck my knees behind his.  And listen to him breathe.  Listen to the sound of the man who has been the center of my world for longer than I can remember.  I close my eyes, feeling far more fortunate than I have the right to be.

“Happy Christmas, John,” I whisper against him.  I love you.

He takes my hand in his and, holding my hand over his heart as if I am an inestimable treasure, he budges back, snuggling deeper into the curve of me.

“Happy Christmas, sweetheart.  I love you, too.” 

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, please check out the Dear Boy series. There’s lots and lots of fluff. 
> 
> All comments and kudos are appreciated :-)


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